


Closer

by Leafling



Series: PWP [15]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Betaed, Boys Being Boys, Comedy, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Comedy Type Humor, Roughhousing, Roughness, Sexual Content, The Author Regrets Nothing, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leafling/pseuds/Leafling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya misinterprets his and Napoleon's relationship. Or maybe he was right all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

Out of the corner of his eye, in the mirror's reflection, Napoleon sees the Russian's hand quaking with barely restrained, animalistic  _violence_.

He knows Illya's got the same orders as him: _retrieve the code at all costs, kill the other guy if necessary._ And while Napoleon doesn’t scare easily, it isn’t at all comforting to know this because _, damn it,_  Illya seems like the kind of fella who could kill a newborn kitten and not even flinch.  
  
As carefully as he can, Napoleon digs his gun out from underneath a neat stack of his oxfords, preparing for an outright  _war_. His eyes flit back to the mirror, Illya's trembling fingers catch his gaze as they slowly work the zipper of his jacket.

Napoleon has to force himself to relax against the impulse to turn around, to square his shoulders and dig in his heels. His nerves are screaming, ready for flight or fight; begging him to at least keep his eyes on the Russian as not to be caught off guard. 

It’s a feat in of itself to be able to ignore his blaring instincts because Illya's got him beat both in size and strength. _Hell, maybe even skill_ ; the Russian is a wild beast barely contained in this freakishly large man's skin.

Napoleon eyes his handgun once more, carefully removing it from its holster and letting it rest at the ready on his clothes. 

All the while, the American wonders if he  _looks_  as tense as he  _feels_  despite his efforts to look anything  _but_. Their conversation is stilted and awkward, they’re both clearly distracted by notions of the impending scuffle.  ** _Good Lord_** , how can they even pretend to talk when the tension in the room is so stifling?

Illya's whole body twitches in his peripheral, prepared for motion. Napoleon doesn't turn his head to fully look. Instead, he ducks down for the glimmering wristwatch tucked safely away underneath his socks. His heart is hammering a tattoo into his chest as he turns around swiftly to lob the heirloom at the Russian, hoping that it would _—at the very least—_ distract him. 

Napoleon is struck completely dumb by the sight that greets him.  
  
Illya looks tense. _No, not tense_...  _ **intense.**_ And not because he's raring to fight.

The Russian's jacket is discarded on the ground at his feet. His hands rolling the hem of his turtleneck up his  _gorgeous_ , never-ending torso, revealing a list of scars and a substantial patch of golden-blond hair that curls in the valley of his abdominals and trails underneath the waistband of his trousers like a question.   
  
Illya's hat is accidentally swiped off as his shirt is pulled over his head in one smooth motion. It is ignored as the Russian's hard eyes bore holes into Napoleon, his pupils dilated beyond belief.   
  
The precious wristwatch hits the floor as Napoleon grapples to processes  ** _what in all hell is_** _**happening**?  
_  
"You aren't... trying to kill me," the normally well-spoken American flounders, feeling rather dumbstruck because, __really__ … _what **do**  you say to this?   
  
_Illya stares back at him wildly, hair sticking up on all angles. He looks even more handsome with mussed up hair than was strictly allowed to be humanly possible. "No? Why should I?" He questions in a voice that's nearly a  _growl_  as he drops his shirt and approaches Napoleon.

 _No,_ **approach** _is too casual_.  **S** _ **aunters**_   _is a more apt description_. 

 **S **talk**** **, which briefly flits to mind,**  makes Napoleon seem like some kind of prey. But, he isn’t anyone's prize, especially not _Illya’s_. 

"This is much more pleasant, is it not?" Illya sounds like he's purring. Which should, by all accounts, sound strange in that deep, guttural Russian accent. Instead, it makes the hairs on the nape of Napoleon's neck stand on end.   
  
It’s right before Illya reaches the threshold of the bedroom that Napoleon remembers _his gun_ laid out on the bed. Quickly, he moves to meet the Russian halfway to avoid Illya seeing it. However, this means Napoleon getting within arm's length of him.

Illya's devilish hands are curious, demanding. Rough and sure.

Napoleon shoves him away like a flustered date, tucking his shirt back into his trousers and glaring as he puts space between them. "Oh, no, you've read the whole situation wrong, Peril.  _This_ ," he gestures at Illya and his wildly inappropriate state of half-dress, then to himself, "isn't happening. I don't know what you think is going on between us, but it certainly isn't _ **this**_." Napoleon is absolutely sure that his hands are trembling because of the rush of _adrenaline_. Nothing else.

Illya pushes back into his space undeterred, pressing Napoleon up against the wall.  _Oh God_ , _Illya is a **freak of nature**_. No one so _large_ should ever be  _so fast_. "You say one thing, but do the other. Is that what they teach you in America: how to talk fancy instead of how to be a real spy?" His hand is a hot brand on Napoleon's hip.

Napoleon scowls, batting his hands away, "I do recall my conversational skills being a vital asset in our mission."

"Your mouth certainly can one of your best qualities. Although, with the way you use it, it is your worst," Illya's eyes linger as he speaks, unnerving Napoleon to the point that he’s actually distracted enough to let Illya capture both of his hands. For a long moment, Illya just looks at him with a mixture of pondering and admiration. And then: "I want to hear you say my name," he announces as though it's the greatest idea in the world.  
  
_" **lllya** ,"_ Napoleon says sharply, scolding even, gritting his teeth in warning and jerking his head away as the Russian leans in to kiss him. His hands twist in the blond's grip and Napoleon feels a something like a warm buzz lance up his arms. His jaw sets, "Okay, humor me. Up until now, I wasn't under the impression that I've been seducing you this entire mission."  
  
"Do not be coy, you know exactly what you have done," Illya sounds dangerous speaking this low, so close to the side of Napoleon's face. Napoleon feels his pulse in his fingers and realizes his hands have been released. Maybe it's pure luck, or Illya being so horny that he can’t think straight, but Napoleon manages to evade him.   
  
They really begin to wrestle when Napoleon dives for his suitcase on the bed and nearly ends up flipping the whole damned thing onto them. 

They’re on the floor by the end, fancy designer clothes scattered around them as Napoleon grapples with the man on top of him. "This isn't how  _civilized people_  flirt," the American grits out in something resembling annoyance, locking his legs around Illya's waist to try and lever him off. Instead, he's crushed to the floor for his efforts.   
  
Illya snakes a hand between them, pressing it against the hardness in Napoleon's slacks, "I am sure you prefer this way. Positive, even."  
  
" _Illya,_ " the American hisses and his hands go from pushing to grasping.   
  
The Russian just lets his hand rest there, a solid pressure. It drives Napoleon  _ **crazy**_. "Do you wish for me to stop?" Illya asks airily and it's the first time he's taken Napoleon's word into consideration.   
  
Suddenly, it occurs to Napoleon that he hasn't actually said  _ **NO**_  yet. It occurs to him then, that, to anyone who has had the pleasure of viewing their odd partnership from the beginning, this was no more out of the ordinary than any of their other  _crowning moments_. The competing; the way they work so well together in spite of all their bickering—everything up until now... Damn it all, it really  _has been_  flirting!    
  
Napoleon has a hard time swallowing his pride, but as Illya starts to gently massage him through his slacks, he sinks into the carpet and manages to shake his head, messing up his neat hair against the floor in the process. "Don't you dare stop now you, you ...!" He's interrupted by Illya's heavy hand squeezing his cock. " _Bastard,_ " he bites out before the Russian's mouth crashes into his own.   
  
From there on, everything is frenzied. Every kiss. Every stroke. Every clipped insult or breathy praise. Suddenly, it doesn't matter that Illya’s his enemy, or that the most important disk in the world is just lying around on the floor among  _thousands of dollars’_ worth of laundry, or that they're fucking on the  _ **FLOOR**_  of all places. Napoleon's focus narrows in until it's just Illya Kuryakin, his hard body, and his deep rumbling voice.  
  
They fuck like they're still fighting for the upper hand. Even though Illya's on top of him, inside of him, Napoleon can and does take over the pace whenever the Russian falters, shifting his hips a few centimeters or tightening his grip around Illya’s waist and smirking when the blond hiccups at the unexpectedness of it. This is a playing field in which Napoleon has the complete advantage; no martial arts or fancy KGB gadgets can help Illya now. Napoleon takes pride in being able to torture the Russian this way, savoring the victory.  
  
Napoleon bears down on Illya's cock, laughing out loud when the blond slams his hand on the floor beside the American's hip in his surprise.   
  
"Gonna come?" Napoleon teases breathlessly, touching himself to the almost pained sounds Illya makes.   
  
The blond groans, burying his face in the crook of Napoleon's neck as the American cants his hips and tries nearly every trick in the book to make him come. Illya moans to him in Russian, his words garbled and unintelligible spoken into Napoleon’s skin.   
  
Napoleon can tell in the way Illya starts to tremble, his body quaking much like his hand usually does, that he’s about to win this new little contest between them. And then Illya yanks Napoleon clear off the floor, pulling him down _hard_ into the Russian’s lap. The American comes between them swearing hoarsely, chest heaving and head rolling onto one of his shoulders. Illya mouths his neck, trying to hold out a little longer but he can’t. His lips part in a silent groan.   
  
They sprawl out on the floor afterwards. Napoleon's mood quickly sours when he rolls over onto one of his precious silk shirts. "This shirt is worth more than  _everything_ in this godforsaken room," he fusses, running his fingers across what looks like  _shaving cream_  sticking to the cuff of the chemise.   
  
Illya scoffs, moving to sit up when they’re both startled by a loud **_crack_**. Quickly, the Russian rescues the broken disk from under his elbow. "... your orders were to retrieve this at all costs, am I correct?" Illya asks him slowly, regarding the broken software with an expression that would have been comical in any other circumstance.   
  
" _Yes_... and I'm assuming those were your orders as well," Napoleon replies almost in disbelief, suddenly feeling a horrible headache coming on.

**Author's Note:**

> You guys don’t even know how badly I needed to write this. I mean, I have been following Guy Ritchie for years, like, since Revolver, which is a long time considering ten years ago I was a kid. When I heard he was doing the Man from U.N.C.L.E, I just knew I HAD to see it. Although I am not the biggest fan of the original series—my mom used to watch it and I occasionally sit down and catch it on the TV—who can say no to the swagger these spy guys had in the way back when? 
> 
> Of course, it’s needless to say I adored the movie. And also, it’s needless to say that I wrote this as soon as I got out of the theater. However, editing is, like, the biggest pain when you own one computer and you have family who likes to peer over your shoulder every five minutes. So, anyway, this originally started off as a joke based on a particularly funny scene at the end—if you’ve seen the movie, I’m sure you can pick it out—but it turned into PWP because, God damn it, why not? The title, obviously, comes from the Nine Inch Nails song of the same name because I couldn't think of a title. As usual.


End file.
